


The Mirror's Edge

by justanotherStonyfan



Category: Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, M/M, Pre-Established Relationship, Skrulls - Freeform, implied noncon if you want to look at it that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:21:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything, the invasion, the battle, Tony's just glad to have Steve home, where he belongs. But being captured changes a man, and the relationship he was in - short oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mirror's Edge

“You're quiet tonight,” Tony whispers, and Steve looks at him as though he's surprised he can hear Tony at all. 

His eyes are glazed and there are dark shadows beneath them, and his skin lacks the usual color. He's a pale man, he always has been, but there's something about his skin now that makes him look as though he's on the verge of illness. It seems too thin, too fragile, and Tony would touch it to test its coolness except that he doesn't know if he's allowed to any more.

Steve says very little now, and Tony wonders if this is how Steven Rogers breaks. If this is how, after everything else, Captain America finally falls.

Steve is nursing, of all things, a small glass of milk, and it's such a Steve thing to do that it wrenches Tony's heart. He doesn't drink, he doesn't let go, he just holds the glass in one large hand and tilts it so that the liquid clings to the sides.

He looks almost like he's going to speak, and Tony waits, hopes. But Steve doesn't answer him, he just goes back to staring into his glass.

He couldn't even _miss_ Steve. There wasn't time, they didn't know. This is worse than coming home, worse than just having been gone. They keep forgetting the last time Steve was really here and talking about things as though he never left. And then he looks confused and they have to explain, and it just reminds Steve how long he's been away, reminds them all that they never even knew.

He wants to say something. He wants to talk to Steve about this – let Steve talk about this – but Steve doesn't. He never does, not even when Tony comes straight out and says it. 

“You know that you can talk to me about this,” he says instead. “Any time you need to.”

Steve nods slowly, but he doesn't talk. He doesn't say anything. 

Tony thinks of reaching out to him, of pulling Steve against him, but that's been the worst thing. Whether Steve doesn't want him any more, or just plain doesn't feel like it, they haven't touched at all. Of course, there's been the usual hand-on-arm contact, the ordinary friendly shoulder bumping or sitting close together on the couch, but Steve hasn't followed Tony to bed since he's been back. He hasn't pressed Tony up against a wall and kissed him like he missed him every second they were apart. He hasn't retreated to Tony's room to nap or run his hand through Tony's hair. They haven't kissed. There's been no lovemaking.

“I miss you,” Tony says and, right away, he knows it's the wrong thing to say. Because it doesn't just imply that Steve is distant, doesn't just imply – however wrongly – that the lack of intimacy is Steve's fault. It's present tense, and it implies Tony didn't miss him before, didn't know on some subconscious level that _Steve wasn't Steve._

“Did you fuck it?” Steve whispers, and his expression doesn't change, he doesn't lift his eyes, he doesn't look at Tony but Tony's blood runs cold. Steve has never, in all the years Tony's known him, used that word. Steve doesn't use words like that. He says _Golly Gee_ and _Holy Cow_ and _Darn everything_ and _Applesauce._ But not that. 

But what else is he supposed to say? _Make love? Have sex?_

Tony wants to bury himself in Steve's chest, press his mouth to Steve's throat, hold him close and let him do whatever he wants to – cry, scream, make love if that's what he wants. But Steve won't want that. And what can Tony tell him? What can Tony offer besides the truth, if he answers at all, and how can he say it without destroying Steve?

“I'm sorry,” he says, because it's a truth with a truth – he did go to bed with it, and he's sorry, he didn't know and he'll never forgive himself.

“Are you all right?” Steve answers. “I imagine that must be difficult for you.”

Tony resists the urge to grab Steve by the shoulders and shake him. It's a strong urge but it won't help. How can Steve still care about him in this situation? How can Steve have heard what Tony's told him and still let Tony be his first concern.

“I'll never forgive myself,” Tony answers. “But I won't need therapy, if that's what you mean.”

Steve nods slowly. “It wasn't your fault,” he answers. “But as long as you're okay.”

And perhaps that's worse. Maybe Tony should have said how long he spent in the shower when he found out, how many hours he scrubbed at his skin, how often he threw up, how hard he shook when he discovered what he'd done, what he'd been duped into doing with that _thing._ Maybe he shouldn't have said he's fine because maybe now Steve will think that he really is, that he doesn't care, that it didn't matter as long as it had Steve's face.

“What did they do to you?” he says, and Steve's eyes drift closed.

“What would you do if you had a man who'd heal completely no matter what you did to him,” he murmurs, “and you wanted to hurt him as much as you could?”

Tony closes his eyes. He'd think it was a rhetorical question except that something about the way Steve asked, something about the way Steve holds himself, something about Steve says that he wants an answer, and Tony knows just what that answer is.

“Everything,” he whispers and Steve nods once, curtly.

That's all the confirmation Tony needs, that's all it takes for the images to flash through his mind, his imagination – nobody's told him anything because nobody can get a word out of Steve but it doesn't matter. Everything means everything, and if Tony, a human with no particular predilection for exacting violence on restrained humans, can think of it, then he's betting they could think of it too, and worse. Their technology, Tony knows, is more advanced. 

And he doesn't get to take time off to heal. Steve doesn't get the chance to nurse his wounds, Tony doesn't get to help clean them. Steve won't limp, he won't have bandages to be careful of, he won't bear scars. Not ones they can see.

Tony suddenly doesn't want to know any more, doesn't want to ask any more questions, but suddenly a whole lot more makes sense. Why Steve spends a lot of time by himself. Why Steve seems more clumsy than he did before. Why Steve prefers to sit by himself, eat by himself, work out by himself, why Steve has gone through so much gym equipment. 

Why Steve won't touch him.

“Did they-”

“Don't,” Steve says, knuckles whitening, eyes closing tighter. 

And whatever doubt Tony had, he doesn't doubt it now. He learned a long time ago that there are many ways to break a man and pain won't break a man like Steve. It takes more than pain.

And Tony can't help him. Tony can't change what's happened, can't change that he was sleeping in their bed with an impostor, can't change that not one single member of the team noticed what had happened. And he can't change what Steve has been through.

“I love you,” he says softly. “I love _you._ ”

“Did you tell _it-_ ”

“No,” Tony answers. “No, I didn't. Whatever happened _here,_ ” Tony says, “that's yours to forgive if you can find it in yourself to do it, but I want you to know that I love you. And that hasn't changed, it won't ever change.”

Steve's eyes open, and he looks at Tony.

“What do I do?” he whispers, and Tony reaches out to him, settling the back of his hand against the tabletop to leave his palm turned upwards, his hand open. 

And Steve stares at it.

Tony can see the way he looks, as though he's torn between taking Tony's hand and running, between letting Tony touch him and pushing him away. As though he doesn't know if he can trust Tony at all.

Steve lifts his hand and it hovers over Tony's for a moment, and it's shaking. Tony can barely see it but the tremor's there, and he can't soothe it away. He can't make it better. Steve sighs, defeated, and he turns his head away as he settles his hand on the tabletop again, next to Tony's without touching it.

Tony leaves his hand there because, even if Steve can't bring himself to hold it, it's there all the same. He can be here with him, even if he can't make it better.

And Tony stares at the tabletop while Steve stares anywhere that isn't the wall, isn't his glass of milk. And Tony closes his eyes and listens to Steve breathing, tries to convince himself that Steve's presence – _real Steve's_ presence – is different. 

And he opens his eyes and looks down when he feels warm fingers in his palm, looks at Steve when he closes his his own hand around them and they don't draw away.

Steve's head is down and he would be staring into his glass again but for the fact his eyes are closed, and the tremor in his hand is something Tony can feel now.

“I'm going to need time,” Steve whispers.

And Tony squeezes his fingers because he doesn't dare pull Steve into his arms to kiss his hair.

“That's something I can give,” Tony tells him.

And, just for a moment, Steve's fingers squeeze back.


End file.
